


old maps are slippery witnesses

by spikeface



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:26:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>eames is the indulgent sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	old maps are slippery witnesses

Arthur is wearing the same dress trousers he always does, because he refuses to ruin the knees of more than one pair. The rest of the outfit changes, but it’s always expensive, the kind of elaborate nonsense he pours into his dream levels. The parallel isn’t lost on Eames. Any con man worth his salt knows a little psychology, and any forger who wants to survive knows a whole lot more. Every Saturday morning, when they’re between jobs, Arthur dresses like he’s in the middle of an extraction, and demands Eames methodically take him apart.

His version of dreaming, he supposes. It’s certainly not Eames’: if he’d wanted a predictable life, he would have become a doctor like his parents wanted, married whomever his parents picked out for him, and quietly dug a grave for himself with menial domesticity. But arguing with Arthur when he’s got his mind set on something is often more work than doing whatever it is, and Eames does get off eventually.

“Stand up. Bend over.” Arthur obeys stiffly, rising from his knees and then bending to grab the arms of the chair. He can never just hold on, has to twist until the wood creaks under his palms like he’s forcing himself to obey his own bloody desires.

The belt buckle, when Eames reaches for it, is supple leather and oiled metal, his trousers soft and tailored. They open and fall easily, pooling around Arthur’s shoes. His briefs come down after that, exposing Arthur’s clenching arse and soft cock.

That had confused Eames, back when they started, and he has yet to get a satisfactory explanation. He’d suggested, the first time he agreed, that he spend a little more time warming Arthur up -- preferably by letting Arthur suck or ride his cock. Arthur had gotten stubborn, his prissy mouth flat.

“You’re awfully insistent for a man who doesn’t like it.”

Arthur had shaken his head, an abortive little motion. “It’s not about liking it.”

Typical Arthur logic. One of them should like it, and Eames hates it, especially the plug. If something must be shoved up Arthur’s arse, Eames would greatly prefer it to be his own prick or fingers, tongue when he’s feeling frisky. And it’s a struggle to get the bloody thing in, which it damn well shouldn’t be. The plug is big, but not as big as Eames, whose cock Arthur has been thoroughly adjusted to. It’s Arthur who makes it difficult, tensing stubbornly against the very thing he’s demanded.

Arthur braces himself, and Eames shoves it in.

He gets no “thank you” for his trouble, nothing but a bitten off grunt. After that it’s briefs and trousers back up, belt cinched tight so you’d never know he’d taken it off.

“Down,” he orders, and directs Arthur into the chair when Arthur doesn’t move. It’s like moving rusted parts. Arthur’s wary of putting his arse down when it’s freshly plugged, and his thighs shake with tension as Eames straps him in. This may be the most tedious part of the whole affair: Arthur insists on the most ridiculously complicated knots, the only kind he can’t slip out of. Eames makes them cut in to Arthur’s skin, just to punish him.

By the time Eames has the blindfold ready Arthur is already staring into the distance, frowning as though he can expel the plug or untie the knots through sheer will. It’s a puzzled little face. Eames pats it jeeringly, and then spreads on the blindfold: on the hard bridge of his nose, along his soft eyelids, past his clenching temples and then through his carefully coiffed hair. He ties it tight enough to flirt with cruelty.

Last on the list is the gag. It’s a black strap with an ambitious red ball, big enough that when Arthur showed it to him he was certain Arthur had quite literally bitten off more than he could chew. He has to stretch Arthur’s jaw to get it past his lips, and Arthur rejects it even before Eames has strapped it on, chewing at it fruitlessly. Eames pats him on the cheek again, just to top off his frustration, and feels the muscle ripple.

He wants to say that he’ll be back soon, but they both know it’s a lie.

Arthur’s nostrils flare.

When he’d first explained the scenario, Arthur had been exasperatingly specific about every detail -- until this part.

“Go for a run,” he’d said.

Eames had rolled his eyes. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Anywhere. Just get out and get sweaty.”

“How long?”

Arthur had shrugged. “As long as it takes.”

He has a forged membership to the gym in the building across the street, although Arthur has no reason to know he didn’t spend his time miles away. He assumes Arthur does anyway, just like he probably knows about the camera Eames has set in the corner of the room and programmed to stream onto his iPhone, but thankfully he hasn’t brought it up. Of the two of them Arthur is the paranoid one. Eames just doesn’t like to take more risk than he has to.

He gets a good run in, watches Arthur’s muffled struggles to the tune of his workout playlist and his own labored breaths. Arthur frets for the first hour or so, visibly forcing himself to sit still and take it. Things get funny when he realizes he _can’t_ , that everything on him and in him is completely overwhelming. He looks absolutely ridiculous then, wriggling in his bonds, dirtying that pale image of perfection he tries so hard to convey.

Eames runs on a treadmill, and he grows more aware with every subsequent stride that he could step off and keep running. No one would find Arthur for days, and once they did everyone would know, would see that Arthur is the kind of stupid slut who lets another man tie him down and leave him. There’s nothing in that house to hold Eames back, not money or possessions or Arthur’s talented throat. Eames could have anyone he wanted on his cock in a second, anyone at all. He hasn’t promised Arthur anything, and even if he ever did, what’s a con man’s promise worth, in this economy?

He’s covered in sweat by the time he turns the treadmill off, his chest heaving with every breath. He hates Arthur all the more for that -- it’s not enough to demand the attention, he has Eames exercising on a Saturday morning.

No matter how long he takes, Arthur always seems to be in the height of his froth by the time Eames gets back.

Now, Eames knows with the certainty of a professional manipulator, is when Eames could push him over the edge. An easy kick to send the chair toppling and Arthur’s mounting restlessness would plummet into panic, set him writhing like a worm on a hook. Arthur might not even know it was him, unable to see, wrapped up in his own waking dream. Eames could tear him apart.

Every week he brushes by Arthur without a word.

He helps himself to a hot shower and a good wank, comes in seconds in anticipation of what he’s yet to do, what he could have done instead.

Arthur, he assumes, knows about that too.

He doesn’t bother with anything more than trousers after that, given what’s to come. He heads back to the room where Arthur’s tied, takes a seat and watches.

This part is the most fascinating yet, a tickle to his ego as Arthur turns his head towards Eames instinctively, even though Eames takes care to be completely silent. He never turns away, even though he can’t see, and if he could all there would be is Eames’ flat face as he thinks about leaving him.

Arthur’s brittle facade is melting now as he puddles down into the chair, forces the plug further inside him. His expressive hands have stopped flitting around on the edges of the armrests and now lie still and lax, his feet firmly planted on the ground. His mouth hangs wide around the gag.

His hands will be the first to go numb, if Eames leaves him, followed by his feet. He’s in some sort of odd fugue now, but that will fade as the hours stretch on and the gag and plug get more insistent. The blindfold will confuse things, turn minutes into hours and hours into eternities. How long before Arthur would start to wonder if he’d die in those bonds? Before he’d be certain of it?

Arthur sits placidly.

The knots are impossible to escape. Arthur can’t speak, has designated no gesture to indicate that he wants out. No one is coming to check up on him later, if he doesn’t call.

He has purposefully left himself no out but Eames’ whim.

Eames has breakfast.

It’s cereal and tea, and he takes it on the couch in the other room, sitting at an angle so he can keep an eye on Arthur. The telly goes on for a few hours. Saturday morning programs are terrible, and more often than not he spends the time reading on his iPhone, but for whatever reason Arthur wants to think he’s watching dull reruns. There’s a lot to be prodded there, the faint but unmistakable taint of some childhood hurt Arthur is trying to erase. It’s the kind of wound Eames usually can’t resist, a sore tooth he wants to tongue, and if this thing he and Arthur have ever implode he has it at the ready. Eames never bothers to play fair when cheating is so easy.

In the meantime he keeps it to himself, tucked away with every other breakable thing Arthur has given him.

Two hours of mindless droning set Eames itching to move. Arthur, by contrast, is draped loose in his chair, hands and lips slack. He blinks drowsily when Eames unties the blindfold, slouches disoriented as Eames undoes the rest of the knots and slips out the gag. Arthur’s chin is covered in drool, and he wipes at it messily, working his jaw, stares down at his erection like he can’t remember how he got it. Eames looks at his sweat-drenched hair and thinks about grabbing it and pulling Arthur to his knees. But he waits until Arthur goes down himself, drops fluidly and opens his mouth without conscious thought.

Arthur is normally a talented but controlling cocksucker. He likes Eames flat on his back while he gets down to business, and he’s touchy about when and where Eames gets to come. That’s quite all right with Eames -- having his cock worshiped and letting Arthur do all the work are two of his favorite pastimes.

This is a jarring alternative, mesmerizing as a train wreck: Arthur utterly relaxed, doll pliant as Eames slides his cock in to the hilt. He threads his fingers into Arthur’s surprisingly soft hair and sets to work fucking Arthur’s throat. It requires an irritating amount of concentration, as Arthur vacillates between swallowing cock and trying to inhale. Eames grips tighter and fucks harder as Arthur’s breath goes reedy, his every breath labored as though Eames has left a permanent imprint. He can always tell the exact moment when Arthur breaks completely, closes his eyes and presses into Eames’ every thrust, nothing more in him than whatever Eames chooses to give. It pushes Eames over the edge like clockwork. He pulls Arthur in close and comes down his throat, watches Arthur takes it.

He lets go afterward, and Arthur crumples bonelessly to the floor. His cock is the only hard thing in him.

Eames can do anything he likes just now, anything at all, and Arthur would take it.

It’s only laziness that makes him do as Arthur wants, pull him to his feet and guide him to the shower, one arm wrapped around Arthur’s thin waist to keep him from falling. Getting Arthur undressed is a trial, but Eames will admit it’s funny anyway, watching Arthur outfoxed by his own shirt buttons, helpless until Eames condescends to do it for him. Arthur’s eyes are filled with something like awe as he takes his clothes off, dark and shadowed with more breakable things. His cock is hard and sensitive, has Arthur moaning at just the brush of his briefs when Eames pulls them off. He fiddles with the shower head while Arthur nuzzles blindly into his shoulder, rubs his hard cock against Eames’ hip.

Eames has tried at various times not to get into the shower with Arthur, since two in a row leaves his skin dry and itchy, but Arthur pulls at his arms and scrabbles at his back until Eames follows. Arthur really is a mess by this point, rutting aimlessly against the scratchy hair on Eames’ stomach, pulling Eames down for a kiss. He tastes like Eames’ come, and he jumps when Eames wraps his hand around his cock, when Eames touches the plug he put in him. He pushes on it firmly, and just a few strokes later Arthur comes apart, moaning like a broken man.

It’s Eames who takes out the plug, because Arthur is completely useless. He gives them both a gentle sudsing, careful to brush the soap from Arthur’s eyes, followed by a quick rinse and a fluffy towel. Arthur is cat content as he huddles in his, follows Eames back to the living room and onto the couch, rests his head on Eames’ thigh. Eames likes to finish the jobs he starts, so he grabs a book, plays all the stupid music Arthur likes and lets his leg go to sleep under Arthur’s weight.

“You were going to leave today,” Arthur croaks eventually.

Eames pets his hair.

Occasionally, he wonders why he keeps doing it. Arthur began as an annoying but convenient fuck on and between jobs, but he’s turned into quite the demanding slut, and it isn’t even Eames’ bloody kink. Yet here he is, strapped into this routine as surely as Arthur gets strapped to the chair, serving up bondage like breakfast in bed and reading the paper while Arthur lounges around, comfortable as any married couple. Eames imagines this scene in another five years, if they live that long -- ten, twenty.

Well.

A man must dream, after all.


End file.
